Adventure Magazine Cover, June 20, 1925 — page 158: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

king the Husky ila John Beames ,, — | taZ a ; \ S a ¥ —., N Author of ‘The Dog Without a Tail,” “The Last Match,’ etc ce LL I got agen him, he’s treach- A erous.”’ ‘““Cock-eye” Leary spat to- » ee * bacco juice in the snow and twitched his eyebrows at ‘Shorty’ Hunt. Then he corrected himself: ‘‘No, not so much that neither—he’s in- dependent as a hog on ice. Can’t get fresh with him. Outpull any dog in the country, he will, never tired nor lazy, an’ don’t know what sore feet is. Never need put moccasins on him. Wouldn’t want to try. Have a feller eat up an’ nothin’ left but a wishbone an’ a pair moccasins. That’s King. “TI wouldn’t let on before, but bein’ as you’ve bought him it’d be only right to warn you. You let King pull an’ keep off him with the whip, an’ let him do what he wants when he ain’t in harness and he’s your dog till freezes. But it ain’t no use neither to bulldoze ner try an’ be friends. That’s what I don’t like about him—he’s so independent.” Shorty Hunt listened and smiled and nodded, but said nothing, while King’s late owner continued to ramble on about things in general and the big black husky in particular. The five dogs, three black and two brown, lay in a string on the snow, harnessed to Shorty’s new carriole. T hey were a fine- looking team, and the little man felt proud of his purchase. But King was the jewel of them all. A smouldering: fire gleamed in his yellow eyes, and there was invincible pride in the lift of his massive head. “See,” said Cock-eye, and addressed the dog in hectoring tones, “You King, you lazy, mangy, fleabit houn’ dawg you.” Up came King’s defiant head, the point of an ivory fang gleaming under a wrinkled lip, and the stiff bristles on his back rising. “Get it,” said Leary, turning back to Shorty. “Three more words to him and he’d have my liver out here on the snow.”’ Shorty’s merry blue eyes twinkled and he laughed. “Sure looks as if he was all fixed to do it,” he agreed. “Well, there you are. Keep your eye on King an’ don’t try an’ get gay with him, an’ you'll be all right. Start any shenanigans an’ you or him’s goin’ to be left on the trail for the wolves to eat. That’s all I got to say. Well, good luck to you.” ‘So long,” answered Shorty and whistled to the dogs. “‘Mush, there, mush,” he cried. King was on his feet, body braced for the starting pull, the jerk that wrenches the runners loose, almost before the words were out of his mouth. The well-trained team were hardly less quick, and in a second they 140 COmiclboo SaC@